“Due to the late hour and being that tomorrow is the Lord’s Day, the sentence shall be meted out at sunrise on Monday.” The judge nodded firmly, signed his name to the order, then left the room.
As the chatter of dozens of voices quickly filled the hall, Prince Aaron looked down and uttered only one word: “Beatrix.”
Chapter 26
Callum awoke to the afternoon sun shining in the window. He immediately felt the most searing pain he’d ever endured, a burning so intense that it vastly overshadowed any memory of the actual gunshot. When he’d spoken the day before, he must have still been under the effects of that blasted morphine, he decided. He wanted nothing more than to thrust his fingers deep into the wound and tear out the source of the pain, though he knew that was a silly hope.
But the pain coursing through his shoulder was nothing compared to the agonizing memory of Miss Beatrix’s face. He remembered all too clearly what had transpired. He, using the only breath he could summon, had declared his love for her and vowed to throw away all that he had for her.
And she had left the room without a word in response.
I am past all hope of redeeming myself. For all our conversations and our stolen moments, I cannot replace myself with the memory of the blackguard who caused her so much upset from that first day we met.
A new memory came to him, that of Weavington calling for the constable. Though he had faded in and out of consciousness in those last few moments, Callum knew what had transpired. Rather than accept the blame for his actions, Weavington—true to his sniveling nature, as always—had forced the blame onto Beatrix’s father.
And Callum had been unable to right that wrong.
But not anymore. There is still something I can do about it. I must go prevent the injustice and save her father!
He tried to push himself up with his strong arm, but even the pull against the muscles in his injured shoulder caused enough pain to force him to cry out loudly. He fell back against the pillows in defeat, only to suffer another stabbing pain as his shoulder collided with the goose-down cushions.
Barclay. He’ll help me. He has no choice!
Unable to reach the cord to ring, Callum looked around for another way. He spied a porcelain tea pot, hopefully not a valuable one, still resting on the tray near the bed, its contents long gone cold. Reaching over himself with his good arm, he strained until his fingertips brushed its handle. With more effort than he knew he could spare, he scraped at the pot repeatedly until it began to turn, inching closer by only millimeters at a time.
Callum paused to rest, leaning back against the cushions until he no longer saw swirls moving before his eyes. He took a deep breath—as deep as the painful wound would allow—and struggled again, reaching so far this time that he was sure he tore some of the physician’s fine needlework.
“There you are, you devil!” he said through clenched teeth when his fingers finally closed on the handle.
He rolled back to his bed and stared at the ceiling until the pain subsided, the delicate tea pot pressed against his chest as though a talisman against further torture. When he could finally breathe again, Callum rolled forward, guarding his shoulder closely, until he was seated upright.
The movement caused the entire room to spin. Doors and windows and tables upended themselves before his eyes, but he squinted tightly to block out the view.
His eyes still closed, Callum sat straighter and pulled his arm back, aiming to hurl the tea pot at the farthest wall. Its shattering sound should alert someone to his plight and send them running to his aide. His arm shook as he held the tea pot up and over his head, readying himself to fling it with what little strength he had left.
“What do you think you’re doing?” a woman cried out indignantly. Callum opened his eyes and dropped his arm, succeeding in smacking the tea pot painfully against his legs. The bed clothes were instantly soaked with cold tea.
“I’m… I mean, I was… why are you here?” he asked, taking in Beatrix’s alarmed expression.
“Where else would I be? You’re injured, and from what I hear, you should be near death!” she answered, taking the tea pot and returning it to its tray. She took the tea towel and laid it across the worst of the puddle to soak up the brown liquid.
“But… I thought you left,” Callum said.
“I had thought to do so,” she admitted. “But Sir Williams had to leave to attend to other patients, and I could not abandon you to whatever infection or illness might take hold. But tell me… what has the tea pot ever done to offend you? Were you hallucinating?”
“What?” Callum asked, bewildered. “Oh no, I was trying to ring for Barclay.”
“Hmm, I’ve only been a guest here but a matter of days, but I’m certain that’s not how you call your staff,” Beatrix teased. “Come on, lie back.”
Beatrix leaned closer and guided Callum by the shoulders. She was so near that he could have reached his arms around her and held her to him, but he dared not. He had no idea what she must think of him now that he played a part in her father’s demise.
“So are you only remaining because the physician insisted?” Callum ventured to ask. “I must know.”
“That is a large part of it,” Beatrix admitted blithely, refusing to meet his eye as she busied herself with rearranging the pillow beneath his shoulder. “I’m sorry, but the eiderdown must come off. It’s soaked nearly through now, and I don’t think you need it anymore. Your fever has come down greatly.”
“I don’t care about that,” Callum pressed, his voice coming out with a hint of desperation. “Why are you here then?”
Beatrix blinked, obviously surprised. She stammered a quick reply, “It’s as you said, the physician—”
